


slow dancing in an inflammable room

by belkastle, crowleysin



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-12 13:09:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belkastle/pseuds/belkastle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowleysin/pseuds/crowleysin
Summary: And yes, there was nothing inherently wrong about spending the night at the shop, and he knew better than most what “inherently wrong” could entail. Should entail. But the problem was the mathematics of it all.





	1. a budget without balance

It was becoming a habit, really, spending the night at Aziraphale’s. Since the Not-Apocalypse, the demon was finding, securing, and exercising every excuse he could to spend time with his angel. Nobody was paying them any mind these days, and personally, Crowley was not keen on counting down the days until the next Great Bloody War (emphasis on the bloody). 

 

And yes, there was nothing inherently wrong about spending the night at the shop, and he knew better than most what “inherently wrong” could entail. Should entail. But the problem was the mathematics of it all. Crowley was not even that competent with maths, yet even he could determine that the more time he spent with the angel, the more he  _ felt _ . 

 

(Now is a good time as any, though, to note that Anthony J. Crowley was not emotionally unavailable or constipated. Far from it. He was perfectly aware of his feelings for Aziraphale, despite the fact that being “perfectly” anything could have, for a time, gotten him literally fired.) 

 

See, there was another effect, another variable, another result —  he really could not give a fuck about the terminology — to the Aziraphale problem. The more time he spent with the angel, the more he felt, and the more he felt, the more he wanted to act. That was the true dilemma. Crowley’s brand was flexible, sure, his very being pliable. He could afford the odd gesture of goodwill, or a sideways glance of utter yearning, and his heart did not entirely protest whenever his best friend directed a smile potent with sunshine toward him, sometimes he even returned these smiles with his own. The budget even allowed for long nights on Aziraphale’s sofa that stretched out, like the Silly Putty he helped invent in the forties, into quiet mornings, the angel’s hand and knee pressed against his own. 

 

All that said, his metaphorical accountants, otherwise known as his unused brain cells, could not handle a Confession™. Such was out of the question and had been for millennia. It alone would push him into oblivion, and perhaps this was still true, even with the New World — Adam’s world, that is, and not the damned Columbus dollar-store-worthy one. But the ramifications! 

 

Aziraphale made it too difficult. 

 

For instance, this evening, the angel had put on a tear-inducing waltz on his gramophone. Tear-inducing due to its dullness, that is. (Crowley had not gone  _ that _ soft.) But the serene smile at his lips, the fanfiction-worthy blueness of his eyes, the gentleness with which he hummed along — surely, this was eternal torture that Crowley committing himself to.  

“That bad?” the angel said now, offering him a mug of cocoa. The season of Mariah Carey was upon them, and though neither of them needed warmth, they were intent on indulging themselves in scarves and cocoa. Soup, on the occasional day. 

 

“What?” 

 

“The song,” Aziraphale explains. He gestures to its source. Crowley pauses and shrugs. 

 

“Your shop, your music,” he says plainly. At that, his companion wrinkles his nose. The demon takes a long sip from his mug. “I was thinking.”

 

“Impressive.” The angel takes a seat next to him. 

 

“Now that we’re on the same side,” Crowley starts, conscious of the proximity between them, how it is growing and growing, “you should branch out.” He is met with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“We’ve ...   _ been _ on the same side,” Aziraphale says. An admission. 

 

“Oh,” Crowley says. He is unable to fight the smile his angel’s words inspire. “Right.”

 

“You were saying, my dear?” The demon hesitates. Anthony J. Crowley, a demon, is well aware of people’s triggers. He knows which buttons to press. Often, he built whatever board the buttons sit on. So, Crowley knows from the depths of his damnation that the next words he utters are cause for alarm in Aziraphale’s … everything. His mind, body, and soul activate some sort of Hyper Mode at the term. At the very idea. 

 

“The gavotte.” 

 

Sure enough, the angel struggles visibly to contain his delight. 

 

“I’m not asking you to do the gavotte with me,” Crowley says immediately, holding up a hand after setting his mug down on a stack of  _ The Chronicles of Narnia _ , which he recalls Aziraphale saying was a mildly decent attempt by Lewis. 

 

“You do not ‘do’ the gavotte, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale laughs. His friend is all too grateful that the angel does not then say,  _ The gavotte does you _ . “What are you asking, then?”

 

And so, this is how Crowley finds himself in the most perilous position, dancing to Florence and the fucking Machine with none other than his best friend. They stand upon the rug Crowley had bought for the angel decades ago, embracing each other with trembling hands (Crowley’s). 

 

“This is nice,” Aziraphale says, but there is a tightness to his voice. Crowley nods against his shoulder, careful not to lift his face to meet the other’s gaze. It was bad enough that he, the teacher, stepped on the angel’s foot at least three times now. They were resigned to this: middle school swaying that passed as romantic. Crowley has not spoken with God much over the years, save for yelling helplessly at her from time to time, but in this moment, he prays he does not ruin whatever this is. 

 

_ I’m always in this twilight … in the shadow of your heart … _

 

The song fades, and with it, Florence Welch’s voice. But they remain there, together. Crowley wills himself to keep his eyes on the threads in Aziraphale’s jacket. He swallows. 

 

“Aziraphale,” he says suddenly, at the same time the angel in question says his own name.

 

“You first,” Aziraphale chuckles, and he is the first to pull back and now, Crowley has to face him, has to face those eyes. 

 

“Not my first choice, that song,” he says. “But it did the job.” 

 

“I’d say. You are an unconventional teacher.” Crowley shrugs with one shoulder and smirks. Memories have a rather impolite way of coming to the surface when they are least desired, and the demon recalls viciously how he’d found Aziraphale in that gentlemen’s club, how he helped film the angel in all his gavottian glory. They’d had a row some time before, and even this encounter had not quelled each other’s frustrations. But Crowley had resolved to tuck away the smile on Aziraphale’s face for later. It is that same smile the angel bestows upon him now. It is simply unfair.

 

“Angel,” Crowley says, voice quieter than usual. Smaller. But then his metaphorical accountants claw at his throat, and there are no more words. Aziraphale just keeps looking at him, though, eyes ever attentive and anticipatory.  _ There’s no room in the budget for this! _

 

“You can tell me.” 

 

He could.

 

He doesn’t. 

 

Instead, Crowley talks about a song by John Mayer. A song that he is unsurprised to learn with which Aziraphale is unfamiliar. He talks about the doom, about the artist’s particular twang, about the melodrama of it all. Rambles, when it is Aziraphale’s job to ramble. 

 

_ This is it _ , he realizes.  _ Rock bottom, even as a fallen angel. Talking about John Mayer’s love songs with the angel who will never love me back — _

 

“I can’t do this,” he says suddenly. Aziraphale blinks at him. And Crowley leaves. 


	2. a demon without his angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angel is selfish.

Three days pass.

 

At least, that's how long it takes for Crowley to crack. The text message he sends does not accurately reflect the time, consideration, and planning that went into it. That is to say, the demon invested an hour and twelve minutes into perfecting (and discarding, then perfecting again) a rather casual, but not empty, invitation.

 

"Hey, Angel. Did you want to go to South Downs this weekend?"

 

"Automated Response: I regret to say that I am unavailable until further notice, as something important has come up! I will get back to you as soon as I can.”

 

When Crowley reads the message an hour later — having been too nervous up to that point to check it immediately, and otherwise maintaining a “cool” image that suggests having countless things to do aside from waiting by the phone for a text from his best friend — he scoffs and throws said phone to the side.

 

Two more days pass before Crowley convinces himself that Aziraphale must have genuinely had something important to deal with, because in all of their history together he had never ghosted him in such a manner, even when he had every reason to.

 

Really, he probably doesn’t know what ghosting  _ is _ . Crowley, on the other hand, is an expert in the field — his demonic colleagues and superiors could attest to that.

 

In any case, Aziraphale is not at his bookshop.

 

Crowley ignores the “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign displayed at the front door, as always, but to his surprise the shop is completely vacant. More unusual, a layer of dust coats the shelves and the air. The gramophone is untouched, silent. Burnt firewood lies barren in the fireplace, ash coating the base. 

 

“Angel, where are you?” 

 

The demon traces a finger along the binding of one of Aziraphale’s current reads which remains bookmarked on page 224, as it was a week ago when the angel delightedly rambled on about the author’s crude plot twist. 

 

He sneers and pushes the book aside. 

 

Another week passes with no answer from the Angel. 

 

Crowley considers leaving the bookstore to its own devices, but something akin to guilt settles in his stomach when he thinks too hard about it, much to the impression of “Angel would do the same for me if I disappeared for a few weeks,” so he finds himself tending to it minimally, sending away the dust and organizing the records (and adding a few more). Some irrational part of him assumes that such a gesture might summon the angel back to him, in which he might say something like, “Thank you so much for watching over the shop, Crowley, it means the absolute most to me! You are such a wonderful person. I love you. I —”

 

Maybe not so much. 

 

By the end of week three, Crowley counts the passing seconds in the comfort of his own home, his ringer at full volume but his phone otherwise ignored, his thoughts on anything and everything except Aziraphale for the sake of his own sanity. 

 

The Aziraphale problem had exploded, leaving Crowley to deal with all this  _ emotion _ splattered on the walls. The most infuriating part is that Crowley never actually said the words that ought to have warranted an explosion. Not comfortable with your best friend confessing his love? Sure, call it off for the rest of eternity. Not comfortable with an unnecessarily long analysis on John Mayer’s work? Sure, let’s call  _ that _ a reason to cut off the closest person in your life. 

 

Selfish, really. 

 

The angel is selfish.

 

Crowley laughs into his palm, quite beside himself, as he considers the absolute malice it would take an angel, even one as complex as Aziraphale, to end everything so quickly. To leave no notice, to —

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

The demon jolts upright, accidentally throwing his ankle against the chair as he spins round to see said angel, standing like something of a mirage in the alcove, and curses loudly. 

 

While the pain of striking his leg is incomparable to the wave of frustration and hurt (and relief) of seeing Aziraphale again, he makes a slight show of it all, kicking at the ground in something of a small tantrum. He then squints pointedly at the angel, who only looks back at him expectantly. 

 

“I’m hallucinating, now,” the demon mumbles. “A cruel joke. Thank you,” he adds, offhandedly, toward the ceiling, arms thrown out dramatically.

 

Aziraphale, suddenly quite alarmed, looks toward the wall behind him, then to the ceiling, then to his friend. “Hallucinating? What would bring that on?”

 

“Angel, you’ve been missing for weeks. I’m not quite sure you’re actually talking to me,” he says as if it’s obvious. It should be obvious. He makes a distinct effort not to look at Aziraphale, in case he might forgive him on the off-chance his eyes look a little sad. A dangerous thing for a demon, forgiveness. 

 

Aziraphale softens, as if he couldn’t possibly have guessed his brief absence would have had such an effect. They’d spent centuries apart, after all. “I’m sorry. I really was doing something important. I didn’t anticipate how long it would take — it wasn’t long at all, if I think about it.” He presses his lips into something of an apologetic smile. “I should have responded to your text, but I thought you would be fine.”

 

The demon shrugs a shoulder. “I was fine.” 

 

“It’s alright if you weren’t.”

 

Crowley grimaces. 

 

A silence lingers between them that somehow carries the same excruciating heaviness as the last three weeks. Even his own home feels uncomfortable now, and what’s worse, it’s the first time Aziraphale’s stepped foot into it. _It isn’t even clean_ , he notes unreasonably, staring at a broken pot near the threshold to the adjacent room. 

 

“I kept the bookstore clean for you,” he finds himself saying.

“You did?” The surprise in the angel’s tone earns a quick glance from the demon. Aziraphale stiffens under his gaze. “I haven’t been back yet,” he explains. “I finished my important … mission, and came straight to you.” 

 

Aziraphale glances around the room in the following silence, as if immune to the awkwardness or the heaviness or the sheer suffocation of it all,  and smiles so pleasantly. “It’s nice here. Clean. But comfortable,” he notes. “And actually quite perfect.”

 

Crowley ignores the way his chest twists delightedly at the compliments, and even more so at such a stunning first impression. It’s not  _ that _ unclean. Just a pot. He waves his hand quickly to dematerialize the broken thing. Already, thanks largely in part to his adorably dumb angel, the demon feels a little less on edge. Of course, Aziraphale always has a way of making negativity disappear, whether he means to or not.

 

“So what was it?”

 

“Hm?” 

“Your ‘mission’,” Crowley says, each letter hanging on an elongated hiss. He steps around the chair, leaning against it as he comes face to face with his friend. 

Aziraphale smiles. “Right. It’s a surprise.”

The demon raises his eyebrows encouragingly. “Go on,” he urges, almost sick with the switch from agony to anticipation. “Surprise me, then.”

“Yes, of course,” he says, bubbling up with excitement. With a wave of his hand a gramophone much like the one in his shop manifests on the desk. Aziraphale, with no sort of hesitance, takes the demon’s hand and pulls him out to the side of the room. With a snap of his fingers, The Foundations’ “Build Me Up Buttercup” fills the room with a nice echo — Crowley’s walls are just right for this sound, he realizes. It’s not the same as the bookshop.

 

The demon cocks his eyebrows. “Angel, what—”

 

“Shh,” he interjects, even going so far as to place a finger on Crowley’s lips. The demon blinks, stunned just enough to be completely caught off guard when the angel puts a hand on his waist and starts moving. A re-evaluation of the budget was growing to be more and more necessary. Still, Crowley has enough sense, to react naturally, his free hand finding the angel’s shoulder.

 

They dance like this, very deliberately, in place — he’s almost positive he can hear Aziraphale whisper “1, 2, 3, 4,” on beat, but whether he’s actually counting or not the thought makes him smile - and it’s all very secondary school, Aziraphale the nervous boy trying not to step on his date’s toes. For Crowley, it’s mindless. 

 

The demon leans forward to whisper in his ear, “Angel, what are we doing?”

 

“Just enjoy it,” he says, turning his head just enough to meet his gaze, and considering how close they are, the warmth that it brings, it’s  _ Crowley  _ that accidentally steps on his partner’s toes. Aziraphale smiles gently and takes the lead again, this time more confidently, around the room, circling the desk and the globe and the chair to the bright rhythm. 

 

_ I — I —I need you, more than anyone darling. _

 

Aziraphale attempts to spin the demon, which turns out surprisingly silly and not so much awkward, as the angel leans forward on the balls of his feet. Crowley doesn’t turn at first, but at the angel’s insistent nod, he smirks and performs the spin mostly on his own.

 

The track plays again after it fades out and somehow, perhaps because Aziraphale worked so hard or because Crowley feels so full of adoration or the two are simply allowing themselves a moment, they settle into a more natural position — a closer hold, where Aziraphale has both arms around his waist and Crowley’s hands link delicately at the nape of the angel’s neck. 

“Is this what you were doing? Practicing a slow dance?”

Aziraphale grins, albeit sheepishly. “It was important.”

“I could have taught you,” he says, looking to the side.

“I know. I thought .. it might be a nice gesture.”

The demon scrunches his nose. “You stepped on my toes at least twice.”

“And you once. We’re practically even.”

“Not at all. Two to one,” he says, leaning back to meet his gaze. “The definition of not even.”

The angel shrugs and the silly argument dissipates as they continue to sway to the beat. “You could have picked a better song,” he says, then. “This is a little … upbeat.”

“That was part of the surprise. I can’t be conventional, Crowley,” he says. “This song is lovely, and fun, and … in some ways, reflective of … of us.” Before Crowley can cut him off, Aziraphale’s diving into an analysis of the characters within the track, of Buttercup and their tendency to leave the other hanging, and it’s all too reminiscent of John Mayer. 

“Angel,” he says finally.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Yes, darling?”

“Thank you,” he decides. “This was … fun.” 

Aziraphale smiles warmly, his cheeks flushed, and perhaps without thinking or perhaps with every intention of doing so, he leans his head against Crowley’s shoulder. The demon’s chest sort of flutters, and if not for the mindlessness of muscle memory, he might have stopped moving altogether.

 

“I would do just about anything for you, Crowley,” the angel says then, just under his breath. “I think, now, I’m prepared for new adventures by your side. To dance with you, like this. To go anywhere with you, to see all the animals — whales, for instance, I hear they have the most  _ impressive _ brains — and people and restaurants, to settle down with you in the little cottage we discussed —”

Surely he had more to say, more to ramble on about, such as how he’d like to raise philosophical questions and propose new inventions that may either inconvenience people or help them just slightly, to indulge themselves and still do some good every now and then, but Crowley doesn’t need to hear it. He doesn’t allow him to continue. 

Crowley, feeling empowered, draws a hand forward to turn Aziraphale’s head just enough that their foreheads touch. He means to say something witty, probably, but instead their lips meet and suddenly neither of them are all that concerned with the words, or the song, or the dancing. 

It’s like that, then, the entire world focused in on a kiss so overdue, for a perfect, simple moment. 

And then they part.

Aziraphale practically blossoms and Crowley finds himself sheepishly looking away. He can’t keep his gaze aside for long, not knowing that his angel has not looked away from him for a second. 

“What?” he says dumbly, almost as if irritated, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind. He’s beaming. 

“I wasn’t finished talking yet,” he says, lips pursed in something of a gentle, teasing pout.

Crowley squints, unsure if he’s serious or not, but Aziraphale’s smile gives him away and Crowley just smirks. He could urge him to continue, to go on and on about all the things he’d like to do, but instead he says, “I have something I’d like to say, first.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Alright.”

It takes a moment, a little bit of psyching up, and then:

“I am … quite in love with you, Angel.”

Aziraphale looks like he might cry, his face all taut with emotion. Crowley winces. “Don’t do that. Don’t start.”

“I’ve not done anything,” he says, shrugging both of his shoulders helplessly. “It just .. makes me happy.” His voice nearly cracks and he laughs. “I’m not crying.”

“Please don’t.”

“I’m not.” It’s the angel, this time, that leans in for a kiss, all confident and quick about it, a shy, passionate peck. Crowley smirks all the same. 

“I love you very much, Crowley.”

The song fades out again, then starts back up and Crowley dismisses it entirely with a wave of his hand. 

_ Can anybody find me … somebody to … love? _

“Go on, then,” he says, leaning against the desk. “I want to hear about all the things you want to do with me. You owe me, anyway, having disappeared for so long.”

“I don’t think three weeks is  _ that _ long. If I recall correctly, one of us had a rather pleasant nap in --”

“Yes, yes, but we’d had that row, and it  _ felt _ like forever.” He signals him to continue with a quick flourish of his fingers. 

“Alright. Fair enough. Where, uh … where was I?”

“The cottage,” he says, crossing one leg over the other. Aziraphale picks up his confession where he left it, as if it were a story. Some sort of collection of works that involve future dates and projects, and Crowley is so, so thankful to hear about all of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very lucky in that my best friend helped me write the second half of this fic! We're both a little rusty, so feedback is always appreciated. Good Omens has taken over us both and you can find us @crowleysin and @azsmiracle on Tumblr. Shoot us a message :>

**Author's Note:**

> It's been eons since I last posted anything or even wrote a fic, so feedback would be appreciated! I still haven't had the chance to read the book, so this is entirely from the show, oof.


End file.
